Menagerie
by Someone aka Me
Summary: Oneshot collection for HPFC. 1.GinnyDraco—Postwar Letters. 2.Remus is offered the one thing that could possibly tempt him. 3. DeanPadma—during DH. Dean risks a lot to stay in contact. 4.DaphneLuna. "Your problem is, as it has always been, that you feel too much, entirely too much." 5. GinnyGabrielle—With her, you can truly breathe. 6. Pre-Wolfstar—Remus is resistant to friendship.
1. DracoGinny

_For my wifey, Ali, for the Gift Giving Extravaganza. Only two months late, right darling? *looks sheepish*_

_._

_For the Summer 2013 Wizarding Modly Forum-Wide Comp of Awesomeness on HPFC_

_Round: History of Magic_

_Option B._

_House: Slytherin_

_To the mods: I would like scores from each category, please._

_Word count: 1204._

_._

_Sent: Evening, Friday, August 14, 1998_

Miss Weasley,

As I'm sure you are aware, your performance with the Harpies has recently been generating quite the stir. I wish to inquire whether you would be amenable to the idea of an interview with me, for the sports section of the Daily Prophet.

Thank you for considering my request.

Draco Malfoy, Reporter for the Prophet.

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, August 21._

Malfoy,

If you're going to sound like a stuck-up bastard the whole time, I'm not coming.

Ginny

.

_Sent: Evening, Friday, August 21._

Ginny Weasley,

I apologise for the tone of my last letter, but I find myself uncertain as to what you desire. Have I interpreted correctly, that if I am to cease such a tone, you will meet with me?

Draco Malfoy, Reporter for the Prophet

.

_Sent: Evening, Monday, August 24._

Malfoy,

God, you honestly don't even do it on purpose, do you? Try to sound like a normal person, instead of a fifty year old business exec, and maybe we'll talk.

.

_Sent: Evening, Monday, August 24._

Ginny,

Please, will you allow me to interview you for the Prophet? I need a piece on a deadline, and you could use the popularity boost. Mutually beneficial. Let me know.

Draco Malfoy

.

_Sent: Evening, Wednesday, August 26_

Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at seven this Friday. You're buying.

Ginny

.

_Sent: Evening, Wednesday, August 26_

Ginny,

If I may, a request for clarification. Seven am, or seven pm?

Draco

.

_Sent: Evening, Thursday, August 26_

D,

PM, you idiot. What sort of freak of nature is up at seven in the morning?

G

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, August 27_

Ginny,

I do not appreciate your insinuation. Please refrain from insulting me further.

Draco

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, August 27_

I only called you an idiot because you were being one. Stop and I will.

Ginny

.

_Sent: Evening, Friday, September 4_

Draco,

Thank you. For that article. The things you said… I didn't expect… I just didn't expect it.

What do you say we try dinner again? And maybe… maybe not talk just about work this time.

Ginny

_._

_Sent: Evening, Friday, September 4_

Ginny,

I spoke only the truth in my article. There is no need to thank me.

…Weasley, did you just ask me out? (I'd like to clarify before I reply, you understand).

Draco

.

_Sent: Morning, Thursday, September 10_

Draco,

God, you're a prat. Why do I keep talking to you? (rhetorical question, by the way. Don't you dare answer that.)

Yes, I asked you out. I seriously contemplated taking it back for that comment, but I'm not that sort of girl. For future reference, next time, just answer the damn question.

.

_Sent: Morning, Thursday, September 10_

Ginny,

Yes.

The answer is yes.

Draco

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, September 11_

Dinner tomorrow?

G

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, September 11_

Ginny,

I will make reservations. May I pick you up? I don't know your address, however.

Draco

.

_Sent: Morning, Friday, September 11_

Draco,

You may not know mine, but I know yours. I'll be at your place at seven. (That's PM, by the way. You know, in case you wondered).

Ginny

_._

_Sent: Morning, Friday, September 11_

Ginny,

Non-traditional, but I'm not sure I should have expected anything else.

And, for your information, I did not, in fact, wonder. I thank you for your concern, however.

Draco

_._

_Sent: Morning, Friday, September 11_

Awwww. You're so sweet. ;)

Sarcasm, my good man. Sarcasm.

.

_Sent: Afternoon, Friday, September, 11_

Ginny,

I think it would benefit you to know that I do have a working knowledge of sarcasm, and my reply was, in fact, in the same tone. Perhaps you should brush up on your detection skills?

Draco

.

_Sent: Afternoon, Friday, September, 11_

Are you actually getting sassy with me? I like it ;)

.

_Sent: Evening, Thursday, June 10_

Ginny,

I know I haven't sent you a letter in a very long time. I haven't needed to, with the communicating on an almost-daily basis. Still, there are times I find that I can say in writing what I have difficulty saying aloud. So I am going to attempt this.

I am sorry.

I should not have taken what happened at work out on you. I was… angry. I was angry, and I wanted only to cause pain. I did not think of the consequences, and I hurt you, and for that I am sincerely sorry.

I cannot promise this will not happen again. I will attempt to endeavor that it does not, but I cannot promise, because much as I try to retain control at all times, I am… only human.

Please, please forgive me.

Yours,

Draco

.

_Sent: Evening, Thursday, June 10_

Of course I forgive you, you idiot. Come home.

.

_Sent: Friday, July 9_

Draco,

Tell your damn boss to stop sending you on these stupid trips. No more after this one, please. I miss you so much, and this… waking up to a message saying you're in the hospital and I can't even see you because you're halfway around the world is not allowed to happen ever again. No more covering contact sports. No more up close and personal with the athletes. No more getting hurt. Do you hear me?

I miss you.

Get better.

Come home.

Ginny

.

_Sent: Never_

_Written: Saturday, September 11_

Ginny,

I'm never going to send this, but I'm so nervous my hands are shaking and I need to calm down, and I've found that sometimes the best way for me to do this is to write things down.

Tomorrow is our first anniversary — one year to the day of our very first date.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The first thing I thought when you showed up at my house was that you were so beautiful, and it surprised me, because I had such negative opinions of red hair at the time.

I didn't understand how red hair could gleam in the sun, could flit between dark ruby and flaming almost-orange. Didn't understand that red hair was beautiful.

You changed my opinion on that, just as you changed my opinion on so many things. I was changing before you, but you… I cannot put into words what you have done for me. You have made my life infinitely better, simply by being a part of it.

I have fallen in love with you. I know you know this. I have told you this, again and again and again. I like saying it. I like the feel of the words on my tongue. I like the way they taste, most especially when followed by your name.

_I love you, Ginny Weasley._

And I want to marry you. I don't think you could possibly understand how desperately I want this — indisputable proof that you are mine, and I am yours. Against all odds.

The ring weighs heavily in my pocket. I cannot help but toy with it.

I don't know why I'm nervous, but I am. I am so, so afraid you'll say no. Because then where will I be?

Tomorrow, I will ask. Tomorrow, I will put my heart entirely in your hands.

I can only hope that you choose to keep it.

Always yours,

Draco.


	2. Remus

In which Remus is offered the only thing that could ever tempt him.

.

For Defense Against the Dark Arts: Strategy 3 (write about a character who is "running from something" — in this case, running from the decision). Squib challenge: include info about a Dark creature (werewolf). Slytherin Bonus: a character conflicted between light and dark.

To the mods — I would like category scores please.

.

The man isn't familiar.

Despite that, Remus knows him. Knows the still-healing puncture wounds that line his bare arms, knows the deep scars across his face, knows the fluid motion of his walk and the uncanny grace of him movements.

"Remus Lupin?" His voice is low, deep, and contains the slightest hint of a rasp. Remus automatically glances across the Three Broomsticks to the table where his friends sit. James and Peter are laughing actively as Sirius scowls at something. None of them are looking his way. And why should they be? He only got up to go to the bathroom.

"…Yes," he finally answers, having already realised that the question was merely a formality; this man knows who he is. "And you are?"

"I am just a vessel; my name does not matter. A word, please, Mr. Lupin."

"I'll give you two: please leave." His gaze darts to his friends again.

"I think you'll appreciate hearing what I have to say." Remus can tell his hesitation shows on his face, and the man adds, "I _know_."

And it means, _I know what it feels like _and _I know about the monster living inside of you _and _I know what it is to be you_.

Not a lot of people do know. While it isn't enough to make Remus trust him, it is enough to make Remus hear him out. He nods, following the man down the hallway and into a room.

He begins to fidget when the man closes the door, slightly uncomfortable but unwilling to show it.

"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Lupin. What do you know about the potion Wolfsbane?"

Remus feels his breath catch. He's been hearing rumours about the experimental potion; rumours that it might actually _work_. Not to stop the transformation entirely, but to at least allow the drinker to keep his own mind.

It would render the transformed harmless, something Remus hadn't even dared to hope was possible.

"It isn't being marketed because it hasn't been fully tested yet." He doesn't allow his hope to show in his voice.

"What if I told you I could get you access? It works, and I can get you access."

The flutter of wistful desire that flickers in his stomach is dangerous, and Remus knows it.

"What's the catch?" he asks carefully.

The stranger laughs. "They said you were clever." He leans forward, intense. "We want you to work for us. You've got a knack for gaining people's trust — they trust you despite what you are. We can use that."

"Who are '_we_'?"

Remus strongly suspects he already knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

"Have you heard of Lord Voldemort?"

And Remus feels his heart sink. Because this, the thing he wants more than anything, is the thing that only those he cannot agree with will offer. He cannot bear to help the people who would hate for reasons solely based on blood, cannot bear to help those who have caused Sirius so much first-hand pain that Remus has had to see. But he also cannot bear passing up the opportunity to stay _sane_. The assurance that he will never hurt anyone.

The man leans back artfully in his chair. "You don't have to decide now. I'll be around." And then he slips out the door, leaving Remus alone with his thoughts; thoughts Remus would rather not be having. He doesn't want to consider it, but the bait — for that's clearly what it is — is irresistible.

.

He doesn't tell his friends about the encounter. He doesn't tell anyone, but it sits in the back of his mind, heavy and unnerving. He doesn't really want to think about it at all.

He sees the man the next time they're in Hogsmeade, and he deliberately doesn't make eye contact. Can't make eye contact.

He knows he isn't being very Gryffindor about it, but he doesn't know what else to do so he avoids, deflects as he has always done best, and pretends that everything is normal.

He does the same thing the third time he sees the man, and the fourth, until Sirius catches him apart from the other two and says simply, "What aren't you telling us?"

Remus can't. He can't possibly tell Sirius about this, can't possibly tell Sirius what he's been considering, and that is what finally makes up his mind. If he can't even tell _Sirius_, it's because he already knows in his bones that this is _wrong_. No matter how badly he may want the Wolfsbane, no matter how badly he may want his sanity… it is not worth this, it is not worth betraying his friends and his principles. Nothing is worth this.

"It's nothing," he finally says to Sirius.

"Bullshit."

"Please." And it's simultaneously _please believe me _and _please stop asking_ and _please understand._

Sirius merely takes a step forward, into Remus's personal space, and he says, "You know you can always come to us."

And Remus wants to say, _Not always. _He can't help but think that there are some things that his friends will never understand, and this is one of them. They cannot understand the complete loss of control that comes with having your body possessed by a soulless bloodthirsty mind, cannot understand what it is to fear, always, what he might do when he is not in control. They are his best friends and they _try_, they try so hard to understand, but the simple fact is that they do not, cannot, and never will understand, because there are some things a person just has to _live_ to truly comprehend.

Remus knows Sirius would immediately say that there was no decision at all, because Sirius loathes the Dark Lord, as Sirius has always heard him called, with every fibre of his being, and Sirius does not understand what it is to lose himself to an implacably violent creature every month.

Remus knows. And while he knows deep in his bones that he never could have said yes, never could have done it… He also knows that he had to contemplate it, because this, too, is a part of him. It always will be.


	3. DeanPadma

For Challenge 3 — Astronomy. House: Slytherin. I would like category scores, please.

For Slytherin bonus, the prompts constellation, lines, dizzying, and midnight meeting.

For Option A, a fic that exists in the same universe as Sam's (hers was ParvatiLavender) with the prompts tears, hat, white flowers, run, and hesitation.

For Squib challenge: set at night, including a character with muggle relatives (Dean Thomas).

.

The first letter comes from Seamus. It's sealed in an envelop with her name on the outside in his familiar handwriting. She stares for a moment, shock causing unintentional hesitation, then tears into the envelope rapidly.

_Padma_

_First of all, I'm so, so sorry. I can only hope that you can understand. I had to do it; I had to run, and I didn't have time to say goodbye. _

_Second of all, I want you to know that I don't have expectations. I know that neither of us knows how long this will last. You don't have to wait for me. It's up to you._

_I can't send owls. They're watching the mail. But I can be at Hogwarts at midnight on the twenty second. A midnight meeting, how romantic, right?_

_(Sorry. I don't mean to be glib. It's just… if I don't joke I'll drown.)_

_Just… be there if you want to be._

_Right on the edge of the forest. That spot where the grounds end. You know where I mean — where that patch of yellow and white flowers grows in the spring?_

_I miss you._

_Dean_

A sob escapes her mouth. She tries to hold back the tears, thinking of him out there all alone, thinking of him risking this for her.

She can't write him back because he's right: they're watching the mail. So if she can't talk to her boyfriend…

.

"Why do boys have to be so _stupid_?"

Parvati grins lazily. "You tell me, Pads. You're the one who's into them."

Amusement flashes in Padma's eyes as she grins at her sister, who is sprawled across her girlfriend's bed. Lavender is sitting on the floor, back against the bed.

"You're going to go, aren't you?" Lavender asks.

"…Of course I'm going to go. I wish he weren't going to do it, but that doesn't mean I won't go."

.

The stars twinkle. Padma looks up, drawing the lines and forming constellations with her mind. Knowing that wherever in Britain he goes, he looks at the same stars.

It's reassuring.

"You came."

She whirls around so fast it's almost dizzying, nearly crashing into him. Automatically, she throws her arms around him.

"Of course I did, you idiot," she murmurs into the crook of his neck. "Of course I did."

.

She tells him not to come again and he tells her to move on to someone else but both of them are stubborn idiots and neither of them listen. Most often he doesn't have time to stay, and she can't sneak out every night, and there's no sense of regularity to it — there can't be, because routine could get them caught. He leaves letters stuck to a rock. Pages and pages about nothing. About where he's been — though never where he _is_, because he's smarter than that. About where they will be, after this is all over. He leaves her sketches, pictures of her.

Often, he'll leave an envelope for Seamus as well, and Seamus will write back. Padma doesn't mind being the messenger between them, because she knows that Seamus is Dean's best friend and she's never intended to get in the way of that.

One day, Seamus folds his letter into a little origami swan, and somehow that becomes a thing. Dean replies to the swan with a frog for Seamus and a little dog for Padma. Padma gives him a hat, and it just sort of spirals until they're folding paper into whatever shapes they can manage, just for one small spark of hope in such a time as this.

It's stupid and pointless and frivolous and it makes all three of them smile.

.

She forces the breaths past her lips, ragged, gasping. Tears stream down her face but she can't seem to stop them.

Suddenly, there is a hand at her shoulder and she curls into the warm body beside her.

"How'd you know?"

Parvati wraps her arms around Padma. "Luna came and got me."

Padma nods and returns the hug. They lie on her bed in a tangle of limbs.

"I wish he could be here."

In a silent gesture of consolation, Parvati presses her lips to Padma's hair.

.

When he comes through the portrait hole, Padma allows Seamus his moment. She finds him later, without the flashy yell. She just curls into his side. He puts an arm around her shoulders.

They can catch up later. Right now they have a war to win.


	4. DaphneLuna

For Charms (Round 4). House: Slytherin. Wand: TBA. I would like category scores please.

Option B: Write a war fic. Stipulation: over 2K.

As a Squib, I must include **Wingardium Leviosa (levitated**), **Lumos (wandlight)**, and **Incendio** in this fic, at least one of which must be successfully cast.

Bonus points for Slytherins are earned for using a charm in the fic (**Diffindo, memory charm**).

Summary: "Your problem is, as it has always been, that you feel too much, entirely too much."

.

Also for Amber's All Types of Love Competition, Category: Mystery Box: One of the following prompts plus the pairing.

"All is fair in love and war.", **gone**, and petrichor (the scent of rain on dry Earth), LunaDaphne

.

People assume that because you're a Slytherin, you have some sort of sway over them. Like your last name and your house mean that you can control what they do. As if they would allow themselves to be influenced by a _pretty little girl_ with no talents to speak of. You're good at keeping your head down when you need to, that is all. And that's enough to keep you alive, but it isn't enough to make you matter. It isn't enough to give you a say.

You have never wished harder that that were untrue. Never wished harder that their assumptions were right.

Because she is missing. She is gone. And you know they have her.

She went home for the holidays and she never came back.

You would trade in every favour you've ever earned to have her back beside you.

.

When you think about it, you can't even remember when she began to matter.

You'd known of her before, of course, in that vague sense one knows of fellow students without deep interactions. Loony Lovegood. Notorious for being a good target when students got bored, because she just _didn't react_. You'd nicked her shoes once, levitated them and stuck them to the rafters.

She'd come to breakfast the next day without shoes on.

You'd taken them down and placed them back in her dormitory without a word. Something about her unrelenting indifference had made you entirely uncomfortable. A disconcerting feeling started at the base of your spine and you… gave in, because why not?

It was the first time you allowed her to influence you. It would not be the last.

.

At some point, you'd started watching her. You gradually came to notice that your eyes unconsciously tracked her wherever she was when she was present — not that she was present particularly often. The pair of you were in different houses, in different years. It didn't come up much, and when it did, you shook it off. Ignored it. She was just Loony Lovegood. She didn't matter.

.

Except she did (_does_).

You couldn't (_can't_) get her out of your head.

.

You had never intended to say anything.

You had a reputation to uphold, after all. Crushing on some girl didn't change that. Didn't change your plans to find a nice, Pureblood man and marry and have an heir. You're a Greengrass. It's what's expected of you.

.

She found you. She found you in a rare moment of vulnerability, after hours in a corridor goodness-only-knows where. Your head was tucked into your arms, balanced on your knees. You weren't crying, but you were considering it, knowing it would be cathartic.

She sat down beside you without asking.

Her feet were bare. Her legs sprawled out straight in front of her, her feet waving back and forth gently. She looked so innocent, so young, and so beautiful.

"It's okay to be sad, you know. Sometimes, people aren't meant to hold so much emotion inside. Tears are just to let it out."

And you'd wanted, so desperately, to snap at her. To say something deliberately cruel, to drive her away, to ensure she'd never try being nice to you ever again. Because you don't like being vulnerable. And she makes you vulnerable.

But she had looked so… fragile. And you know she isn't, you know she's stronger than she looks, and you know that words cannot touch her. But you couldn't even bear to try.

So instead you kissed her, because that couldn't hurt her but it could drive her away.

Only it didn't.

First, she went still, and you nearly pulled away but then… it changed. Tentatively, her lips molded to yours, and that slight change was enough to make you feel like someone had incendio'd your bloodstream; you were on fire.

And that's how you fell in love.

.

Now she's missing, and you can't even panic. You can't, because no one is allowed to know what she means to you. So you read the notes she's given you over and over again under your blankets by wandlight and you pray to a God you don't believe in that she comes back to you. Alive. Whole.

You play your part. You act pretty and just smart enough not to be noticed and you stick to your fellow Purebloods. You do what the Carrows tell you even though you don't like causing pain because… because you have an instinct for self-preservation that is stronger.

You face a little blonde girl with too-blue eyes and Ravenclaw robes as they tell you what to use _Diffindo _then _Crucio_ — let the fires of pain light up the open cuts.

You close your eyes and force the image of her out of your mind and you cast, one after another. Amycus sneers. "More feeling next time," he says, and then he tells you to get out.

You do.

_More feeling_, he says. _More feeling_, as though your problem is not feeling enough when you know that it is quite the opposite. Your problem is, as it has always been, that you feel too much, entirely too much.

You don't know how to contain it all, you don't know how to force it away, and you certainly don't know how to feel what they want you to feel. You can't do that; you never have been able to. It isn't how your mind works.

_Sometimes, people aren't meant to hold so much emotion inside._

She saw right through you in an instant, didn't she? Saw right to the heart of you.

You can't decide if you should love her or hate her for that. Not that it matters how you _should_ feel.

.

"Um. Daphne Greengrass?"

You whirl around at the unfamiliar voice but it emerges from a familiar — if unexpected — face. Ginny Weasley is staring at you, uncertainty painted across her features.

You nod slowly. You hadn't even known the Weasley girl knew who you were, not after seven years of blending in.

"Look, I… I can't tell you how I got this, and I don't understand _why_ I have it, but… Well, this is for you."

She holds out a piece of parchment folded into the shape of an envelope. Your heart skips a beat at the familiar script that bears your name in green ink. _Daphne_.

You look up at Weasley with suspicion, but she seems well and truly puzzled and you can intuitively tell that she has no idea. She knows who the letter is from and who it's to but she has not lied; she has no idea _why_.

It is a stupid, foolhardy, illogical move to send you a letter — and it makes you warm inside like nothing else does. God, but love makes you stupid, doesn't it?

You nod faintly at Ginny and walk calmly away, despite the fact that all you want to do is sprint in the opposite direction and find a secluded corner to read it. She still looks puzzled, and vaguely frustrated, but mostly resigned. You suppress a grin.

You take the letter to a classroom you know no one bothers with, taking a roundabout path to get there, just because you understand the need for extra caution.

_._

_Daphne,_

_I know what you're thinking. _

_You're thinking this letter is a silly risk. That I'm being silly. That I'm risking things I don't understand._

_In some ways, you are right. In others, you are wrong._

_I do understand, Daphne. I understand exactly what I'm risking, for me, for you, for Bill (who will be posting this) and for Ginny. _

_I also understand that it is worth it. That you are worried but you won't acknowledge it. That you want to ask but can't be seen asking. _

_I am alive. I am safe. I have not been done any lasting damage. _

_I have looked upon the face of evil and I know now that he cannot be saved._

_I know you told me that. You told me that a man like him couldn't be redeemed and I told you that everyone could. You just had to try hard enough._

_I was wrong. I see that now._

_I believe in you, and in your ability to blend in. _

_I cannot in good conscience ask you to change for me. Not when you have not asked me to change for you. Not where so many others have already tried to ask me to change._

_But I can and do ask that you follow your heart. That, when the time comes when we all must choose, that you will choose what you believe in, rather than simply choosing what you believe you should._

_I do not make promises I am not certain I can keep, so I will not promise to come back to you. I will not promise to write again. _

_I do not know where things will go from here, and so I must speak my mind, for I do not know if I will ever again have the chance._

_I love you._

_I know I have never said as much. I know you put little stock in words. I know you think that I love too easily._

_In truth, I have loved too few. I do not give love simply. I like a lot of people, and I love very few._

_You… made yourself vulnerable for me. No one has ever truly done that before. You staked __everything__ on a risk you were betting would fail._

_I just wanted to make sure that you knew that._

_Yours, always yours,_

_Luna_

.

You clutch her letter in your hands and you sob like a small child. She is beautiful and eloquent and so, so precious and you know you do not deserve her, but she loves you all the same.

She met the Dark Lord face to face and came out the other side with "no lasting damage" and you cannot imagine how a person gets to be _that strong_ but you don't want to figure it out because it's _her_. It is a part of the mystery that is Luna Lovegood and you love the mystery, love that you never quite know how to pin her down.

That night, you cradle a pillow in your arms and curl around it and pretend it is her. It is not the same as a warm body and a beating heart, but the image is enough to soothe you to sleep all the same.

.

She is there, here, blonde hair twirling out behind her, wand flying and all you can think is, _she's underage. She isn't supposed to be here_.

You shoot off a couple of Stunners and then a Memory Charm just to really screw with their heads (because you get bored of the monotony and who the hell wakes up with no memory and just decides to up and join the fray?) then you make your way toward her.

You should save the tearful reunion for later so you restrain yourself, but you cannot keep from grasping her hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. She turns to you, but before she can say anything you throw another Stunner at the man taking aim at her back.

You squeeze her hand again and then turn her back around. "Later," you murmur softly.

.

Later, she is curled up in your arms just as you wanted. Her blonde hair is sprawled across your chest, tickling your neck. You are grateful for the proof that she is truly here.

You want to talk about all of it, everything that happened, but at the same time you really don't. You know she understands.

Besides, the way you figure it, there will be plenty of time for talking later. Plenty of time to figure out what the hell this is and if you're as in love with her as you think and what therapy you both need after that war.

For right now, you don't want to talk. So you take her chin gently in your hand and draw her lips up to yours and you kiss her until you cannot breathe, let alone think about any of that.

There is always later.


	5. GinnyGabrielle

For Flying Class. I'd like category scores please. House: Slytherin.

Option C, 1K plus, using one of the following: fantastic, **vacation**, or truth.

For squibs, must use the prompts **convinced**, **believe (believed)**, **once**, **stand (stood)**, **arm**, **up** — in that order.

I'm just going to apologise to the judges for the length of this — it sort of ran away from me a bit. Sorry!

For Nay as part of the Gift Giving Extravaganza. I saw GabrielleGinny and I couldn't resist. Nay, I love you. Not just because you ship all the best things (although you do :), but because you're a lovely person who isn't afraid to stand up for what she believes.

For Amber's All Sorts of Love, femslash.

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The first time you see her, she's just a little girl. Your eyes flicker over her like she's not there, landing instead on your brother and the boy you hero-worship. She is… irrelevant.

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The second time you see her, she is still just a little girl. Eleven, this time. But the thing is, she seems convinced that she is older: she bats her eyelashes coyly at Harry as though she's got a shot. You scowl at her. Foolish child.

The next day, only one day before the wedding, you find out that the two of you are meant to walk down the aisle together. Gold, you think disdainfully, is likely not her colour.

One day later, you take it back. She is… gorgeous, and you feel insignificant as her small hand takes the elbow you offer.

It should, you think, make you only more resentful. You cannot measure up, and you know that she will not remain a child forever. Instead, though, you feel your resentment melt away. She is a child, a beautiful child with spun-silver hair that shines in the sunlight, and you cannot blame her for seeing the beauty in Harry.

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She is your sister-in-law. Sort of. Once removed? Familial relations confuse you, with how many you have to keep track of. Either way, you're now related by marriage and so you see her more than you believed you would, after the war ends. Once, she comes to England, but she spends the whole vacation complaining and no one wants to try that again. Bill and Fleur spend a few months in France and you visit them and, quite unexpectedly, fall in love. The countryside is spectacular. You feel free in a way you never do at home. You feel like you can breathe properly for the first time.

It doesn't help that in England you are weighed down by your mistakes. There, you are all-too-conscious of the people you weren't strong enough to protect in your time at Hogwarts. You took up the responsibility and they put themselves in your hands and you failed them. You are haunted by screams of pain and blank eyes and you _know_ it is not your fault but you can't keep the guilt at bay.

In England you are haunted by Harry, who never loved you and you know that now — he wanted to, so badly that he believed he did. But he didn't. And you still aren't sure where the line is between love and hero-worship and which side you stood on. You don't think it matters anymore.

You are twenty-one when you make the decision to move to France for a while. You love it and you need to get away for a while. Away from the string of broken hearts you can't seem to stop leaving behind you. You pick up boyfriends and drop them just as quickly because… because there is always something missing, something not quite right.

You are tired. You are so, so tired, and you need something new. So you pack up everything and you move to another country without a clue where you'll be staying or what you'll be doing, and it feels fantastic.

You owl Gabrielle and ask her about cheap places to stay because she's not so little anymore — she's sixteen and she reminds you too much of yourself for you to resent her anymore.

Her letter back is not what you expected. Instead of giving you suggestions, she makes a request.

_I know you do not know me particularly well and I can understand if you do not wish to, but I would very much appreciate a flat-share. I was looking for someone to share with already when your owl arrived. _

_Please. I must get out of this house._

You remember being sixteen, and granted you were in the middle of a country-wide war at the time, but you can't ever remember needing to escape home that badly. You thought about it, because there were times your Mum drove you batty, but you never would have done it.

You think about what it must have taken to drive her to such a state, and you cannot say no. It benefits you as well, and you cannot leave her, not without knowing what she feels the need to escape from.

She is not an adult yet. You are all too aware of this fact, but… you know what it is to be sixteen, and if you say no she'll find some way to do it by herself, without you, and if that happens then you can't be sure that she'll be looked after. For some reason, you find that entirely unacceptable.

You send her back your agreement. Her reply consists of a lot of thank yous and an address.

You pick up your box of shrunken boxes, check out of the hostel you've been staying in while you attempted to find a place, and Apparate to a nearby alley.

The neighborhood is unmistakably Muggle and unmistakably shabby. The flats are tucked up against one another and you can't taste the country air. You make your way through the dim streets, striding with a confidence you don't feel, box tucked securely under your arm.

The building has six floors. You push the buzzer for flat 5B.

Her voice is small. She sounds young, too young, and you remind yourself to teach her how to answer that buzzer with firmness. "Hello?"

"Gabrielle? It's Ginny."

You can practically hear the smile in her voice as she greets you and buzzes you in.

No elevator, not that you'd expected one. You climb up five flights of stairs — the door to flat B is already ajar, Gabrielle standing easily against the door frame.

God, she's even more stunning than the last time you saw her. Her blonde hair is pulled to the side and braided to keep it away from her face. She wears a white shirt that accents her tanned skin, paired with a purple skirt that draws the eye toward her long legs. Her feet are bare, and there is something unspeakably vulnerable about that.

Her eyes light up in a way that just isn't fair when she catches sight of you, and she _bounds_ down the hallway and tosses herself full-body into your arms. Startled, you barely catch her — only Quidditch-honed reflexes keep you both from tumbling to the ground. Her arms loop around your torso and you realise that despite her size, she is _strong_.

Oddly, though she is crushing your lungs, you feel like you can breathe again.

"Thank you," she murmurs softly, her faint accent coming through even on the short phrase. "You did not have to."

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At first, she won't tell you why she was so desperate to move out. She helps you unpack your box and shows you around the small flat — one room, one bed, a fold out couch, a small kitchen, and a toilet behind a curtain. She says she'll take the couch, but you tell her in no uncertain terms that the two of you will be alternating. She tells you about her job at a coffee shop down the street where she makes just enough to pay her half of the rent. You have enough saved from playing Quidditch for a few years that you can make a few months' rent before you find a job, but you intend to begin looking immediately.

The two of you settle into a surprisingly easy routine. You turn twenty-two and travel home at your mother's request, but only for one night. Your birthday, though, means it's August, so one day your curiosity bests you and you ask.

"Gabi, what about school?"

She stills, freezing in place where she's been chopping carrots for dinner. "What about it?"

"Are you… do you intend to go?"

"No." Her tone begs no further questions, but you have put up with the wall of silence for too long.

"Why not?"

Gabi usually has astoundingly good posture — a stiff contrast to your usual sprawl, but she makes it look natural — but the rigidity of her spine at the moment suggests extreme tension.

"They expelled me."

A pause, then you collect yourself. "Why?"

You wouldn't have believed it possible, but she actually stiffens further. "I… cannot." Her usually melodic voice hits a note that rasps, tension creating a blockade. "Please, Ginny. Please, do not ask, because I could not bear for you to hate me, too."

You step closer, touching the small of her back lightly with your fingertips. She jumps and you recoil, but she spins around to face you, which was your intent. Her eyes are full of pain.

"Gabrielle." Your voice is soft, softer than you have ever heard it before. "Gabi. I could never hate you."

And as you say it, you realise both that it is undeniably true, and why it is so. You like her. Beyond what you should. You are _attracted to her_. You are _falling for her_, and dammit she is sixteen and you are twenty-two and you don't do relationships — although in retrospect perhaps this is why. Perhaps this is why it always felt like something was missing. Because you always just said yes and you never sought anyone out and you never looked for someone. They were just there and you said yes and never looked further. You've never felt like this before.

You shove the realisation aside to be addressed later. Now is not the time for your epiphanies. Not with her burning, pained eyes staring up at you like you have the power to break her world into pieces.

"Please," she says once more, and you almost agree, but for the fact that you know that she is wrong about this. You could not hate her, not for anything.

"Tell me," you whisper softly, and it's not quite an order, but it's not quite a suggestion either.

"They… They found me… in bed with another student. We weren't doing anything! We were just… just kissing." She can't meet your eyes.

"And they _expelled you _for it?" You are immediately furious beyond belief, but Gabi puts a hand on your arm to stop you from exploding. She isn't done.

"The… the other student was a girl."

You blink, still waiting for the punchline. Still waiting for why the _hell_ that warrants _expulsion_. Eventually, it becomes clear that that is it. That _is_ the punchline.

You can't even form a coherent sentence. She turns away, and you know your silence is giving the wrong impression but you can't find words so you grip her arm gently — light enough that she can slip away but tightly enough that she knows you'd rather she didn't.

She looks up at you and her eyes are so broken and you want. You _want_. You want to kiss her and make it all better, you want to bash a few heads, you want to tell every idiot who ever told her she wasn't worthy that she is beautiful and perfect and oh-so-fragile, and you want to shelter her from anyone who doesn't see that. You want so desperately to kiss her.

But you don't. You force the words to come because you are still all-too-conscious that she is sixteen and you don't know how to function in a relationship and it isn't fair to her to start something you can't finish.

"Gabi, that is… God. Can they _do _that? Legally? I… Shit. I'm not… Look." You run your free hand through your hair, trying to make sense. Trying to do this right instead of screwing it up, knowing this is going to matter. "I don't…" _Care_, you were going to say, but that's not true; you're sort of ecstatic, but you can't say that. "It should _not matter_ who you love or who you want to be with or… or whatever. And that they would… _expel_ you over something so… so _bigoted_ and _asinine_ is just… so beyond not all right. All right?"

Somewhere in there, your message must get across, because you find yourself with an armful of Gabrielle. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

You wrap your arms around her and remind yourself that she doesn't see _you_ like that.

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She tells you eventually that her parents kicked her out when the school told them. She'd been moving from shelter to shelter in the months between her May expulsion and your letter in July. Almost two months, she lived on the streets, and you shudder at the thought of what could have happened.

You can tell intuitively that this is the only secret she has kept. A weight has fallen away from her. She seems… free. Blissfully so. And God, but she's even more beautiful when she smiles.

She is the paradox. She takes your breath away, and at the same time, it is only when you are with her that you feel like you can truly breathe.

You say nothing. She is six years younger than you and not even legally an adult yet.

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December. You've had a job at a tourist shop for three months now and you make enough to hold up your half the rent without taking from your savings.

Gabrielle's birthday is the 17th of December. Her golden birthday — 17 on the seventeenth. You want to make it special but you don't know how. You buy her a necklace — a beautiful necklace with a chain the color of her hair and a gem the color of her eyes — because you know she won't splurge on herself. You buy ingredients and stow them away in secret.

You bake her a cake, and she awakes on the 17th to a flat that smells of cinnamon and charred cake.

She laughs at your sheepish grin, stepping toward you, bare feet quick on the cold tile. She is close, too close. "Do you know what I want for my birthday?" she asks breathlessly.

Mutely, you shake your head, afraid that if you attempt to talk, you will squeak instead.

She takes another step closer. You take one back, but your back hits the counter. She takes another. Her body is warm, pressed up against yours. She pushes herself up on tiptoes. "You," she whispers, her breath ghosting your lips, and then she closes the space between you.

Apparently, you are far more transparent than you thought.

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AN: and a rationale. I've had people say they don't think she'd be expelled for that. With the Wizarding World, I've seen it go both ways in regards to sexuality — archaic, and progressive. I've written both. This would be an example of the prior. I don't know if that's a convincing argument, but that's how it went in my head.


	6. Remus&Sirius

_Ten Prompts:_ **Heat**, **determined(determination)**, **box(es)**, **charm(s)**, **first impression**, **see**, **21st**, **wall**, **uneasy silence**, **fight(er)**

No Slytherins, No Hufflepuffs, one to two characters.

Challenge: Dueling, Color Pink. House: Slytherin. Wand: Holly and Ashwinder Ash, 12in. Category scores please.

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Your first impression is a scruffy little boy holed up in the corner of a train car, trying to take up as little space as possible. Dressed in clothes that have been mended more than once, he is a stark contrast to the opulence you are used to.

As a result, you like him immediately.

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You find out soon that he is more than meets the eye; he looks fragile, but he is a fighter in the heat of the moment. He allows himself to be run over, but he will not stand for the torment of anyone else, and he knows more charms than are in the first year's textbook. Even backed up against a wall, he doesn't give up.

You like him even more.

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You _see_ him, when he's so busy blending in that few do. He works through his classes and his assignments with quiet determination, managing to get some of the best marks in the class and still slip through under the radar.

He is impressive, but he won't talk to you. Every time you try to approach, he shies away. He is carrying the weight of something on his shoulders, and he won't tell anyone what it is.

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The twenty-first (yes, you've counted, and no, you aren't obsessed, no matter what James says) time you try to approach him he finally meets your eyes. They are a brilliant amber you've never seen before. He asks you what you want, why you won't stop bothering him. You don't know how to answer that.

"You're different," you say, but he doesn't seem to take that as the compliment you mean it to be.

He walks away, leaving you cursing yourself.

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The fifty-second time you talk to him, he smiles at you for the first time. You wonder if he's finally getting used to this almost-friendship that the two of you have going on here.

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Near the end of your first year, after spending nearly nine months observing him, puzzle pieces begin to slot into place.. You do some research and it all makes sense.

You know, but you don't know what to do with that information.

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"Remus is a werewolf."

Peter and James exchange a look in the uneasy silence.

"Sirius…" James starts by silent agreement but you don't let him continue.

"No, listen to me, James. Every time he goes home to visit his mum, it's a full moon. The Shrieking Shack, you heard what Frank said about it being haunted but only this year. He always looks so pale just before and after he gets home; he's thin and scrawny but tough. James, think about it. You know I'm right."

And James doesn't know what to say.

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It should make you afraid of him, but it doesn't.

It should make you want to stay away from him, but it doesn't.

Maybe you are fearless. Maybe you are the adrenaline junkie you've always been accused of being. Maybe you're just too obsessed to care.

It doesn't matter why. What matters is that the cat's out of the bag and you're still fascinated by him.

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"I know," you say at last as Remus is packing his belongings into boxes to put in his trunk.

He looks up at you. "Know what?"

"I know about you. What you are."

He pulls his eyes away from yours, looks back at his books.

"And, ah, what am I, exactly?" His voice is mild but you can see the trembling in his hands.

"You're a werewolf."

He goes absolutely still at your proclamation. Horror seems to wash through him.

"I don't know what you mean." This time, his voice shakes. He is an awful liar.

"I know, Remus. You don't have to lie. And you don't have to run from me anymore. I understand. You run from people because you don't want to give them the power to hurt you, don't want it to hurt you when they find out and maybe walk away. I understand. I didn't tell James my last name at first because I didn't want him to walk away. But, look, Rem, thing is… I like you. As a person. And I don't care what you look like on full moons or whatever. So if you could say something, that'd be great, because if you don't, I'm just going to keep babbling on to fill this awkward silence and I really don't want to do that so you should definitely—"

"Do you understand what it means? No one stays. No one ever stays. _I could kill people_, Sirius. _I could kill people and I have no control over it._"

Sirius shrugs. "But you won't, because you care and you take precautions and all that."

"Why do you care so much about having _me_ as a friend?"

Sirius shrugs. "Dunno, mate. Does it matter why? I just do. You're clever and people underestimate you. I like it." He shrugs again.

Remus looks at him in some sort of awe. "How do you exist, Sirius Black?"

"You see, when a mother and father hate each other very much…"

And, for the first time, Sirius sees Remus laugh.

"Maybe next year we can do better, eh?" Sirius asks, hesitantly hopeful.

Remus nods slowly. "Maybe we can."

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It is your three hundred and fifth attempt, and you've finally gotten it right.


End file.
